


Four hundred words a day, fluff!

by AcceptablePseudonym



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Gen, Recurring Characters, Worldbuilding, short story collection, varying styles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-08-31 14:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8581627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcceptablePseudonym/pseuds/AcceptablePseudonym
Summary: ...or thereabouts. There is a whole city beyond the shining flagstones and futuristic facades of Savannah Central, and there is a whole world beyond the borders of the world's most optimistically named federal city-state, and certain recent events have had far-reaching ramifications that even Zootopia's best and brightest have yet to catch on to.The following is an on-going short story collection filled with familiar faces, complete strangers, abrupt shifts in writing style, lots of experimentation, as well as the occasional continuing plot-line; Tread with care, for here there be worldbuilding, and dragons too.





	1. Musings

You slam the door shut behind you, eliciting muffled complaints from your ever-sensitive neighbours, and throw yourself in the chair hard enough that it rolls back a couple of feet. It's a flashy show of anger, and you _try_ to be angry, but anger just isn't your thing, so after a couple of minutes of silent fuming and fixing the wall with a glare so pathetic that it'd probably feel embarrassed on your behalf if it could, you slump in your chair with a sigh and try to make sense of this, this… you don't even know what to call this; _mess_ would be as accurate as it gets, except it doesn't cover the impending sense of unfocused dread permeating everything else in the background, like the mildew growing inside the walls of your crappy apartment. And you know that trying to “figure it out” is pointless and stupid, because you can't figure out something that's completely irrational, but you can't really help it, you've always been the type to over-analyse things, it's your coping mechanism. So you think…

 

_Why the hell would anyone be afraid of me?_ It just doesn't make sense to you, but then again _of course_ it doesn't make sense to you, because you _are_ you, you've lived with yourself all your life and not once did you think of yourself as scary. People don't normally think of themselves as something to be afraid of. You try to look at yourself through their eyes, and for a moment it makes you feel kind of gross, and that gives you pause. Because: because you've always claimed that empathy is the core tenet of your philosophy, because you _hate_ it when other people just choose to be ignorant, because why the hell does it make you so uncomfortable to try and think like a prey what is _wrong_ with you-

 

Okay, so, all this time you've actually been a closet hypocrite. The realization hits you like a slap to the face, leaves you stinging with shame. Somewhere inside your head is buried the same kind of sense of taxonomic superiority that's been screwing you over ever since you were a naive little cub and that teacher purposefully denied you the chance to be head of your class in middle school (you _still_ aren't over that, actually, because that was the one time you seriously tried to succeed academically and on the very last test of the year you got marked down on a comma placement of all things; a fucking _comma placement_ , are you serious?) You don't _want_ to be a hypocrite, though, so you try again. You've never felt uncomfortable around people with fangs and claws because, well, you've got fangs and claws of your own, and you _know_ you're not about to hurt anyone with them so it's not that hard to extrapolate that the same applies to any fellow predator you hang out with. But prey wouldn't know that. They're not in your head, they can't read your mind, and… and you _could_ hurt them. They've got millions of years of pre-history reminding them of what you _could_ do to them, if you wanted to, and no magical way of telling that you don't want to.

 

_Well,_ a little voice at the back of your mind chimes in, _they do, actually. It's called common sense_. And that's true, obviously. You wouldn't stand to gain anything by randomly deciding to attack some poor schmuck on the street, except a thirty to life sentence and possibly a trip to the loony bin. Like, did anyone seriously think that a predator would actually want to _eat_ them? “Them” being somebody that said predator might've worked with, might've shared school benches with, might've talked with mere hours ago? People didn't do that to people. ( _And we're well aware that you're people, we've had somewhere around five thousand years to familiarize ourselves with the concept, get over it_.) No, the idea is so ludicrous it can't even begin to fit in with your understanding of how the world works. And yet… And yet, if there were even the slightest chance that you might be (disembowelled, dismembered, torn apart, _eaten_ ) in danger, how much would common sense matter? How much would it matter, _to you_?

 

...you've seen prey horror movies, on nights where there wasn't anything else on TV and you couldn't be bothered to undertake anything more complicated than slouching on the couch with a bowl of re-heated takeout, and you've never cared for them much. (You secretly always rooted for the monster, on the basis that its acting was at least decent.) But now you're remembering that time you got mugged, and the asshole pulled a real-to-god, stab-you-dead-with-it military knife on you, and you think: _that must be what they feel like, all the time_.

 

But the part of you that still hasn't forgiven underhanded middle-school teachers rebels at that, growls _this isn't fair_. It's not fair, because it isn't remotely the same. You pull out a knife when you want to hurt somebody; claws and fangs you just _have_. They're just a part of what you are, _who_ you are. You're reminded of those de-clawing and teeth-blunting ads that always somehow end up in your mailbox, and you can't help but sneer, because deer horns are sharp as fuck and nobody's asking _them_ to mutilate themselves to fit in. Fangs and claws aren't weapons, or, well, they aren't _just_ weapons – they're physical traits. Traits that, you might add, other predators find appealing. Traits you might be attracted to in the person you love, traits that might make you feel good about yourself and the way you look. Traits that, yes, make you feel a little bit safer when you're walking down a dark alley at night, because the best things in life are both pretty and functional. They shouldn't be something to be ashamed of, and it always kind of pisses you off when people seem to imply that, because it's humiliating and _wrong_ and a society that forces you to disfigure yourself to be considered acceptable isn't a society you want to be part of.

 

That said, you have to account for the fact that prey just… don't know better. They grow up in a culture that's adopted “once bitten, twice shy” as their sacred motto, are rarely if ever pushed outside of their privileged little comfort zone, and watch shock-value five o'clock news that constantly remind them of how fragile they are (even though half of them are huge hunks of muscle that could probably stomp on you in a one-on-one fight.) Of course, that sort of news would disturb you as much as it disturbs them (which is why you've stopped watching the five o'clock news), but for some reason prey mammals can't seem to comprehend the idea of a predator being scared, as though fear is some sort of exclusive prerogative of theirs. Which it's not. _Yes_ , the little voice butts in again, _and being brave isn't an exclusive prerogative of predators either_ , to which you can only acquiesce, because you don't feel comfortable criticizing other people's prejudices without acknowledging you have some baggage of your own that you've got to work with. That rabbit on the news… bunny-cop; spewing the same propagandist pseudo-science shit you've had thrown against you so many times you've lost count. But whatever else she may be, you've got to recognize she's damn brave. Brave yet wrong, so obviously fear isn't the only catalyst behind bigotry. You wonder if it was her parents who taught her to think like that, or maybe her pastor. She genuinely seems well-intentioned, and you think: if only she'd take the time to actually get close to a predator, get to know them, she might realize just how wrong she is. You try to feel at least a bit positive about that, but it's useless – well-intentioned or not, her media blunder still cost you your job.

 

Because you're pretty sure that's what this is about. You've twisted and turned the little pink slip currently residing on the side of your desk over and over again on your way home, and no matter how you look at it this is the only explanation you can come up with, because those woolly little turncoats won't tell you anything, and they were praising you for what a diligent employee you were only yesterday. And, thing is, you don't even care about the damned job! But you really don't want to become yet another number on the statistic of predators dropping out of college just because somebody couldn't keep their personal biases out of their “professional” statement. Just…

_Ugh._

What you actually want to do, right now, is head out to the nearest pub and get hammered, because you're pathetic like that and can't deal with reality. But that wouldn't help, and it would use up money that you feel is gonna become very precious to you in the near future, so instead you flip open your laptop and, with all the gusto of a drunken sailor at three in the morning, start looking for a job that might still accept predators.

 

You remember the way people started to cross the road to avoid you, ever since that fateful press conference. The room feels just a little bit colder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first little chapter is set the day after our favorite rabbit cop's rather disastrous first encounter with press conferences; the movie seems to imply that it all turned out well in the end, but those few months of fearmongering and taxonomic-rank tensions can't have been very pleasant to navigate for a great many people.  
> Also, as a note - if the second-person narration dismays you, don't worry! It's going away in the next chapter, and probably won't be seen again for a while, or at least until the fancy strikes me to go all vague and introspective again.


	2. Introductions

It was an early October morning, nearing on winter and with the scent of snow in the air, though the weather still hadn't quite come to grips with its supposed gloominess as warm orange sunlight eased the bite of the cold, whipping wind. By the sound of it, people had already started milling about on the street far below, but widower McCarthy didn't much care about them; he was an old goat now, and he hadn't much cared about the goings-on of the world outside his tiny apartment since his wife, bless her heart, had moved on to better pastures twenty-five years ago. He'd been a mountaineer once, when his joints weren't rheumy and his eyes had seen clearer and the grass had seemed greener, but those times were long gone and nowadays widower McCarthy struggled to clamber up the two steps to the kitchenette for his daily breakfast routine of crumpets and tea (a habit he'd picked up in some foreign place, didn't know what to make of the locals but their B&B standards were at least impeccable.) As the water in the old tin kettle began to boil, his gaze happened to wander to the low window above the right-hoof side counter – this was unusual, because the view from that window was mostly obscured by the grimy roof of the building adjacent, which drew almost level to the aged wooden sill he used to store teas and spices, and accumulated all manner of unsightly filth from the apartments above his. He'd seen all sorts of things end up there, from broken pencils and cigarette butts to used condoms and mouldy food, but this was the first time in his recollection that a lithe teen-aged wolf landed seemingly out of nowhere onto the rusty sheet metal, slipping on rotten leaves and skidding down half a foot before regaining his balance. The youth seemed as surprised as he was, yellow eyes widening as they met his own, and for a few moments they simply stared at eachother as though frozen in place. Then a second teen landed beside the first, this one a rabbit (wearing the same sort of raggedy second-hand clothes as his companion, McCarthy noticed,) who gave a cheery wave upon noticing him before pushing the wolf along. They both ran down the length of the filthy roof and jumped to the building across, clearing a gap that would have had the old goat's heart beating faster even when he'd been younger, then rolled and kept running without breaking stride, disappearing from view before long.

Now, widower McCarthy prided himself in not being like other old people, thinking they deserved everything just for living that long and always grumbling about the young generations, so when the shock wore off a little and he had his tea to hold on to, steaming and warm and reliable against his hooves, he did not grumble about youngsters these days and lack of respect and whatever else it was he supposed people said in these situations. Instead he sat down in his rocking chair in the living room, sat there with his eyes closed and said nothing; after a long, long time, he smiled. Reliving long by-gone days vicariously, remembering the thrill and sense of adventure that age had all but erased, made the ache in his rheumy joints matter ever so slightly less. Youngsters these days, indeed…

 

_***_

 

It was raining, and cold, and well past any semblance of breakfast-time before the two of them made it back to their dorm, but that was of little consequence since the staff never bothered to do a proper headcount unless there were officials lurking about, and sneaking into the kitchen unseen was hardly a challenge. Their damp fur and wet clothing might've earned them a scolding, once, but a blend of perseverance, smooth talking and sheer bloody-minded stubbornness had eventually gotten their minders to accept the odd duo for the born troublemakers they were. Max was scruffy and gangly, scruffier and ganglier than any rabbit you've likely seen, sporting an off-colour grey coat and a tendency to snarl at people he didn't like when he thought that no-one was looking. Will tried to look scruffy, but “scruffy” just didn't stick to him; he had a sleek frame, sleek brown and tan fur, and even his smile when he felt he had the upper hand in a conversation was sleek. He tapped his foot though, loudly and rapidly, whenever he became impatient or nervous – which, if pressed, he'd admit was neither sleek nor particularly wolf-like a habit. Then again, there was nothing normal about a wolf and a rabbit being brothers, or so people said, and yet that had never stopped the two from introducing themselves as such. Brothers in mischief, like-minded stragglers banding together against a world dead-set on stomping them into anonymity, and being different species had never really mattered to them since, as Will explained, you didn't necessarily have to be related by blood to be pack, and “pack” was just a mistranslation of the wolf-word for family.

 

The large and somewhat kitschy cuckoo clock on the far wall had been reliably five minutes early for as long as either of them could remember, and currently it indicated that first period had started ten minutes ago. This gave them a decent timeframe to work with, but the corridors would still be a no-go zone with the ever present risk of loitering or less-than-punctual teachers, which meant...

Will groaned. "I was just starting to get used to feeling my paw pads again. Do we really care that much about breakfast?"

The rabbit made a theatrical show of looking shocked and betrayed. "They had pancakes in the menu this morning; _Pancakes_ , Will! Are you really going to deny me true joy?"

"Mmmm. If I say yes, do I get to stay in here where it's cozy and warm?"

Max laughed, halfway through opening the window again. "Of course not, don't be daft!All for one and all that, even if it's just the two of us now."

"This is abuse," the wolf protested, though already he was starting to smile. "Anyway, what are we gonna do if we start getting frost again? They cut down the birch next to the Hopperfield building."

The rabbit paused, which was not normally the sort of thing you want to do when shimmying across a narrow eave more than thirty feet above ground. "They did? When?"

Will considered shrugging, and rather more wisely decided against it. "Dunno, I just noticed as we were coming back." He frowned. "That was our only route that was safe all year round."

"I know." A sigh. "We'll just have to be careful."

"Or, you know, give up and have breakfast in town."

Max resisted the urge to shake his fist at the heavens as he began the long descent down an already-slippery drainpipe. "Never!"

 

As expected, the courtyard below was utterly empty at this time of the day, nothing but balding oak trees and rain-bloated benches and mud that squelched underfoot. But what interested the two was hidden behind an overgrown holly bush, a small aperture in the rough age-worn stonework which led down to the dark, vaulted pantry that looked more like the cellar of some gothic fantasy castle. The short tunnel was just wide enough to admit a middle-sized rabbit, provided they weren't claustrophobic, and terminated in a rusty vent grille cleverly set up so as to appear securely fastened while being, in fact, quite easily removed by the hypothetical lapin sneak-thief; if the staff even knew about it, they had obviously never made the connection to the occasional missing item (which was usually whatever dessert they had served that morning).

About half an hour later, once their faces were properly stuffed with ill-gotten pastries and after a quick stop by the rickety walk-in fur driers of the nearest shower-room, the brothers felt adequately prepared to finally face the perils of the educational system. Time waxed on in the daylight world, a cavalcade of nasally lectures and overheard gossip, but they paid little mind – to them, life only started at moonrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! So, as it turns out, in the chaos that's been my life these past few weeks I completely forgot I never actually got around to uploading this. Meh. I'm not really satisfied with how it turned out, but if I didn't upload it already I don't think I'd have been able to move on with this thing that I'm writing here. Anyway, in this second installment of "Pseudo struggles with the concept of pacing and runs out of steam after a measly 1 k words", we meet a couple of characters that we'll be seeing again in the future. Despite the setbacks, I hope you've enjoyed!


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